Strega (23 page)

67

I
WOKE UP slowly to the smell of dog food. Pansy's face was inches from mine, her cold–water eyes unblinking, waiting patiently. Something was floating around at the top of my brain—where I couldn't reach it. Something about the boy's pictures. I lay there, ignoring Pansy, trying to get it to come back to me. No good. Lots of dreams never come to you again.

I took a shower and went out to get some breakfast, still trying to figure out what was bothering me. Whatever it was would have to get in line.

Pansy ate her share of the cupcakes I brought back. It wasn't until I put down the paper that I realized I hadn't even looked at the race results. Depression was coming down as surely as the Hawk—what people around here call the winter. They call it that because it kills. I had to get word to Immaculata that I was going to have the boy for her to interview. And after that, I had to wait.

I stopped at a light at the corner of the Bowery and Delancey. A big black guy with a dirty bandage over half his face offered to clean my windshield for a quarter. A used–up white woman with a cheap wig riding over her tired face offered to clean my tubes for ten bucks. I paid the black guy—V.D. isn't one of my hobbies.

The alley behind Mama's joint was empty, like it always is.

I slumped down at my table in the back, catching Mama's eye. One of the waiters came out of the kitchen with a tureen of soup. I waved him away—I wasn't hungry. He put the tureen down in front of me anyway. Bowed. If Mama told him to bring soup, he was bringing soup.

Mama came back in a few minutes, hands in the side pockets of her long dress. "You no serve soup?" she asked.

"I'm not hungry, Mama," I told her.

"Soup not for hunger. Not food—medicine, okay?" she said, sitting across from me. I watched her work the ladle, giving us each a generous helping. Women don't listen to me.

"I have to call Mac," I said.

"I do that. You want her to come here?"

I just nodded. "Good," said Mama. "I want to talk to baby."

"Mama, she won't have a baby for months yet."

"Too late—talk to baby now—prepare baby for everything, okay?"

"Whatever you say," I muttered. I wasn't in the mood for her voodoo that morning.

I ate my soup, keeping quiet as Mama loaded the bowl again, smiling her approval. I lit a cigarette, looking at Mama. "You going to call Mac today?" I asked.

"Call soon," she said. "You get call here. Last night."

I looked at her, waiting. "Man say he has name for you. Say to call the Bronx."

The Mole. "Thanks, Mama," I threw over my shoulder, heading for the phones in the back. I dialed the junkyard—he picked up on the first ring.

"You have a name for me?"

"Yes."

"Can I come up?"

"I'll meet you. At the pad."

"When?"

"Day after tomorrow," the Mole said, and cut the connection. I walked back inside the restaurant. The Mole would be at the helicopter pad just off the East Side Drive past Waterside Towers in two hours. With a name. It was a stupid place to meet, but there was no point arguing. The Mole loved helicopters.

Mama was still at the table. "I get Immaculata now?" she asked.

"Sure. Thanks, Mama."

"You feel better, Burke?"

"Yeah," I told her. And I did.

68

I
WAS HALFWAY through a platter of roast duck, spare ribs, and fried rice when Immaculata came in. I got up from my seat, bowed to her, and indicated she should sit down and have something to eat. I was piling some of the fried rice onto her plate when Mama appeared over her shoulder. She shoved in next to Immaculata, pushing the plate away from her, barking something in Chinese. Another of the waiters came on the run. I don't know what Mama said to him, but he immediately started taking all the food off the table except for the plate in front of me. He was back in another minute, carrying a couple of plates with metal covers on top. Mama served Immaculata ceremoniously, arranging the food on her plate like an interior decorator.

"What was wrong with my food?" I asked her.

"Okay for you, Burke. You not mother, right?"

Immaculata smiled, not arguing. "Thank you, Mama," she said.

"Only eat best food now. For baby. To be strong, okay? No sugar, okay? Plenty milk."

I polished off the rest of my food, pushed the plate away, lit a cigarette.

"Smoke bad for baby too," Mama said, glaring at me.

"Mama," I told her, "the kid isn't here yet."

"Be here soon enough," Mama replied, "yes, baby?" she said, patting Immaculata's flat stomach.

I ground out the cigarette. "You think it will bother the baby if I talk to Mac?" I asked Mama.

"Talk in soft voice," Mama said. "And pay baby respect when you talk, okay?"

"What?"

"You talk to mother—first you tell baby hello, right? You finish talk, you tell baby goodbye. Very easy—even for you, Burke."

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, looking back at Immaculata for sympathy. She looked back, her eyes clear. It apparently made sense to her too.

I bowed slightly to Mac. "Good morning, honorable infant," I said. "I have to speak to your beautiful mother, who is going to help me with something very important. You are the most fortunate of babies to have a mother and father so committed to you. I am certain you will have your mother's beauty and intelligence and your father's strength and courage. May all your days on this earth be blessed with love. I am Burke, your father's brother."

Mama nodded approval. Immaculata bowed slightly, the faintest of smiles playing about her lips.

"Mac, you know the kid I told you about? I figure he saw a lot of things when they took that picture of him. If you speak with him, maybe he'll tell you things he hasn't told anybody yet."

"He might," she said. "But it sometimes takes a while. The safer the child feels, the more he can tell us. His own therapist would be in the best position to get this information."

"He's not in therapy."

"Why is this?"

"His mother—other relatives…they feel the best thing is for him to forget it…go on with his life."

"That doesn't work," she said. "Kids who have been sexually abused have a lot of issues to work through. Guilt, fear, anger. Especially the anger. It's abusive not to give the child this opportunity."

I was thinking of prison again. If a kid was raped inside the walls, he had a shortage of choices: Keep on getting fucked by anyone who asked. Escape. Take a P.C. for the rest of his bit. Kill himself. Or kill the guy who did it to him. Only the last choice made any sense—the only way to get back to being treated like a human being. Instant therapy.

"Could you treat this kid?" I asked her.

"The interview you want me to do—that is the beginning of treatment. It would be unethical for me to simply work with the child to get some facts and then abandon him. It doesn't have to be me that works with him, but someone has to."

"I'll make that part of the deal," I told her. I glanced at my watch—time to get on the road and meet the Mole. "When can we do this?" I asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon I have some time free. Can you bring the child to SAFE around three o'clock?"

"Can we make it the day after, Mac? The kid's people need a day's notice."

"Okay. Thursday, then. But make it four instead."

"You got it." I stood up to leave, bowed to Mama and Mac. Mama's eyes were hard on me. "Goodbye, baby," I said to Mac's belly. "It has been a pleasure to be in your company once again."

Mama smiled. By the time I was halfway to the kitchen, she was deep into a discussion with Mac about cribs. I couldn't wait for Max to show up—Mama would probably want him to open a bank account for the kid's college education.

69

I
TOOK the East Side Drive to the 23rd Street exit, appreciating my cigarette even more than usual thanks to Mama's new edict. A guy on the radio was blubbering something about a political scandal in Queens—in the Parking Violations Bureau this time. Political corruption in New York isn't news, but they keep reporting it the same way they keep telling you the weather. People like to know about things they can't do anything about.

There's a big outdoor parking lot near the pad where the helicopters land and take off. The attendant was a ferret–faced little hustler. "You need a ticket, man?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said to him. "Do I?"

"Give me five and park it over there," he said, pointing to an empty corner of the lot. "Keep your keys." The sign on the lot said seven dollars for the first half–hour. A New York transaction—a little bit for you, a little bit for me, and fuck the guy who's not there when the deal is made.

I walked over to the edge of the helicopter pad. A blue–and–white copter sat there waiting for passengers—mostly tourists who wanted a different view of Manhattan than you get from the Circle Line boats which berthed on the West Side. I was into my second smoke when the Mole materialized from behind one of the cars. He was wearing a filthy white set of coveralls, with a tool belt around his waist, the usual satchel in his grubby paw. He didn't look dangerous.

"Mole," I said by way of greeting. When he didn't reply, I asked him, "You have that name and address for me?"

The Mole nodded his head in the direction of the highway, turned, and started to walk away. I followed him, wondering why he didn't want to talk by the launch pad. He led me to a South Bronx special—a battered old Ford, half primer and half rust, sagging on broken springs, no hubcaps, a hole already punched in its trunk from the last burglary attempt. The Mole climbed inside without unlocking the door. I followed him. He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled off.

"You think it's safe enough to give me that name now?" I asked.

"I have to go with you," he said.

"How come?"

"You can't hurt this person," the Mole said. "My friends, the ones who set this up—they make the rules. You can't hurt him. I have to go with you—make sure."

"Is he going to talk to me, Mole?"

"It is all arranged. He will talk to you, but only about his…thing, in general. You understand? Not about what
he
does, about what
they
do. 'Deep background,' my friends call it."

Great. "Can I threaten him?" I asked.

"He will know you can't hurt him. It won't do any good."

I lit another smoke, saying nothing. But the Mole read my thoughts. "You will know his address. He wanted the meeting to be where he lives. But if anything happens to him, my people will blame you. He is important to us.

"Slime like that is important?"

The Mole's eyes flashed behind his thick glasses. "We have a saying—the tree which bears fruit does not care about the fertilizer. And we must grow food in the desert. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. My one option.

The Mole drove the way he walked through his junkyard—like he wasn't paying attention, just blundering along. But he handled the Ford well, negotiating the traffic, paying no attention to the angry horns when he cut someone off, just being himself. We found a parking spot on 9th Street on the West Side. The Mole shut down the engine, looked over at me. "You have anything with you?" he asked.

"I'm clean," I told him.

"The cigarette lighter I made for you?"

I didn't say anything—he meant the throwaway butane lighter he had filled with napalm.

"Leave it here," the Mole said. I opened the glove compartment, tossed it inside.

"You going to leave your satchel in the car too?" I asked him. The Mole looked at me as if I should be on medication.

70

T
HE MOLE stopped in front of a limestone–front townhouse just off Fifth Avenue. It was three stories high, level with the rest of the buildings on the block. Maybe thirty–five feet wide. A seven–figure piece of property in that neighborhood. Four steps took us to a teak door, set behind a wrought–iron grating that looked custom–made. The Mole's stubby finger found the mother–of–pearl button, pushed it once.

We didn't have long to wait. The teak door opened—a man was standing there, waiting. You don't need a peephole when you have a couple of hundred pounds of iron between you and whoever's at the door. I couldn't see into the dark interior. The guy at the door was tall and slender, both hands in the pockets of what looked like a silk bathrobe.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Moishe," the Mole said.

"Please step back," said the man. He had a British accent.

The Mole and I went back to the sidewalk so the iron grate could swing out. We walked past the man inside, waited while he bolted the iron grate shut and closed the door. We were in a rectangular room, much longer than it was wide. The floor was highly polished dark wood, setting off overstuffed Victorian furniture, upholstered in a blue–and–white floral pattern. Only one light burned off to the side, flickering like it was gas instead of electricity.

"May I take your coats?" the man said, opening a closet just past the entranceway.

I shook my head "no"—the Mole wasn't wearing anything over his coveralls.

"Please…" the man said, languidly waving his hand to say we should go up the stairs before him. I went first, the Mole right behind me. We were breaking all the rules for this human.

"To your right," his voice came from behind me. I turned into a big room that looked smaller because it was so stuffed with things. A huge desk dominated the room, set on thick carved stubs at each corner. They looked like lion's paws. An Oriental rug covered most of the floor—it had a royal–blue background with a red–and–white design running from the center and blending into the borders. A fireplace was against one wall, birch logs crackling in a marble cage. The windows were covered with heavy velvet drapes the same royal blue as the rug. Everything was out of the past—except for a glowing video terminal on a butcher–block table parallel to the desk.

"Please sit anywhere," the man said, waving one arm to display the options in the room as he seated himself behind the big desk. I took a heavy armchair upholstered in dark tufted leather. A bronze–and–glass ashtray was on a metal stand next to the chair. The Mole stood near the door, his eyes sweeping the room. Then he sat on the floor, blocking the door with his bulk, putting his satchel on the ground. He looked from the man to where I was sitting, making it clear that we had an agreement. Then he pulled out a sheaf of papers and started to study some of his calculations—taking himself somewhere else.

"Now, then," said the man, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. "May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee? Some excellent sherry?"

I shook my head "no." The Mole never looked up.

"A beer perhaps?"

"No," I told him. I'd made a deal not to threaten him, but I didn't have to pretend I was his pal.

The man reached for a cut–glass decanter on his desk. Something that looked like a silver leaf dangled from just below the neck of the bottle, attached by a silver chain. He poured himself a wineglass of dark liquid from the bottle, held the glass up to the light from the fireplace, took a small sip. If he was any calmer he would have fallen asleep.

It was hard to make out his face in the dim light. I could see he was very thin, balding on top, with a thick pelt of dark hair around the sides of his head. Heavy eyebrows jutted from his skull, hooding his eyes. The face was wide at the top, narrowing down to a small chin—a triangular shape. His lips were thin—his fingers long and tapered, a faint sheen of clear polish on the nails.

"Now," he said, taking a sip from his glass, "how may I help you, Mr…?"

"I'm looking for a picture," I told him, ignoring the request for my name. "A picture of a kid."

"And you think I have this picture?" he asked, his heavy eyebrows lifting.

I shrugged. I should be so lucky. "Not necessarily. But I hope you can tell me about that kind of thing in general. Give me an idea where to look."

"I see. Tell me about this picture."

"A picture of a kid. Little chubby blond–haired boy. About six years old."

The man sat behind his desk, patiently waiting. I hadn't told him enough.

"A sex picture," I said.

"Um" he mumbled. "Not such an unusual picture. Little boys in love do things like that."

Something burned inside my chest. I felt the Mole's eyes on me, got it under control, took another drag on the cigarette. Who would have a picture like that?"

"Oh, just about
anyone
. It all depends on
why
the picture was taken."

"Why?"

The man made a tent of his fingers, his English accent making him sound like a teacher. "If the picture was taken by his mentor, then it wouldn't be circulated commercially, you understand?"

"His mentor?"

"A mentor, sir, is one who teaches you, guides you through life. Helps you with problems…that kind of thing."

I just looked at him, picturing a little dot of cancer inside his chest, keeping my hands still. I raised my own eyebrows—a question.

"Men who love boys are very special," the man said, his voice reverent. "As are the boys who love them. It is a most unique and special relationship. And very little understood by society."

"Tell me," I said, my voice flat.

"When a boy has a sexual preference for men, he is at grave risk. The world will not understand him—many doors will be closed to him. It is the task of a dedicated mentor to bring the tiny bud to full flower. To help nourish the growth of the boy into manhood."

"By taking pictures of the kid having sex?"

"Do not be so quick to judge, my friend. A true mentor would not take such a picture for commercial purposes, as I said before. The pictures are taken to preserve a unique and beautiful moment. Children grow up," he said, his voice laced with regret for the inevitable, "they lose their youth. Would not a loving parent take pictures of his child, to look upon in later years?"

I didn't answer him—I didn't know what loving parents did. Mine took a lot of pictures of me—they're called mug shots.

"It's capturing a moment in time," the man said. "It's a way of keeping perfect times always with you, even when the person is gone."

"You mean people…people like you…just want to keep the pictures? Not sell them or anything."

"People like me…" the man mused. "Do you know anything about 'people like me'?"

"No" I said. The deal was I couldn't hurt him—nobody said I had to tell him the truth.

"I am a pedophile," the man said. The same way an immigrant would one day say he was a citizen, pride and wonder at being so privileged blending in his voice. "My sexual orientation is toward children—young boys."

I watched him, waiting for the rest.

"I am
not
a 'child molester,' I am not a pervert. What I do is technically against your laws…as those laws now stand. But my relationship with my boys is pure and sweet…I love boys who love me. Is anything wrong with that?"

I had no answer for him, so I lit another cigarette.

"Perhaps you think it's simple," he said, his thin mouth twisted in contempt for my lack of understanding. "I love boys—you probably assume I'm a homosexual, don't you?"

"No, I don't," I assured him. It was the truth—homosexuals were grown men who had sex with other grown men; some of them were standup guys, some of them were scumbags. Like the rest of us. This freak wasn't like the rest of us.

He watched my face, looking for a clue. "You believe my preferences to be unique? Let me say this to you: some of the highest–placed men in this city share my beliefs. Indeed, were it not for my knowledge of such things—of powerful men with powerful drive–forces in their lives—I would not have the protection of you people," he said, nodding his head in the Mole's direction.

The Mole looked straight at him, expressionless.

"Any boy I love…any boy who returns that love…benefits in ways you cannot understand. He grows to youth and then to manhood under my wing, if you will. He is educated, both intellectually and spiritually. Prepared for the world at large. To such a boy, I am a life–changing force, do you understand?"

"Yes," I said. It wasn't a lie this time.

"And I would…I
have
taken pictures of my boys. It gives us both pleasure in later years to look at this icon to our love, as it once was. A boy is a boy for such a short time," he said, sadness in his voice.

"And you wouldn't sell these pictures?"

"Certainly not. I have no need of money, but that is not the point. It would cheapen the love…almost immeasurably so. It would be a violation of the relationship…something I would never do."

"So nobody would ever see the pictures you have?" I asked him.

"Nobody outside my circle," he replied. "On some rare occasion, I might exchange pictures of my boys with others who share my preferences. But never for money.

"You mean you'd trade pictures? Like baseball cards?"

The man's eyes hooded again. "You have a crude way of putting things, sir. I know you do not mean to be offensive"

I nodded my head in agreement. I didn't want him to stop talking. The Mole's head was buried in his papers, but I could feel him telling me to watch my step.

"My boys
enjoy
knowing they give me pleasure. And it gives me pleasure to show their love for me to other men who believe as I do." He took another sip of his drink. "To be sure, there may be an element of egotism in exchanging photographs with others I
am
proud of my success. But—and I'm sure you understand—one must be very discreet at all times."

I understood that all right…gave him another nod of agreement.

"There
are
those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes. Not those who share my loves…my life style, if you will. But no true lover of boys would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picturenot his name, his age, his little hobbies. Commercial photographs are so…
anonymous
. Sex is only a component of love. One brick in a foundation. Do you understand this?"

"I understand," I told him. It was true that the devil could quote the Scriptures, as the Prof was always saying. "Would a person ever destroy his pictures…like if he was afraid there was a search warrant coming down or something?"

"A true pedophile would never do that, my friend. I can assure you that, if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace."

"But the pictures are evidence…"

"Yes. Evidence of
love
."

"People get convicted with evidence of love," I told him.

A smile played around his lips. "Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong."

"It's worth going to prison for?" I asked him.

"It's worth
anything
," he said.

"The people who…exchange…pictures of boys. You'd know how to get in touch with them?"

"We have a network," the man said. "A limited one, of course. You see the computer?" he asked, nodding his head toward the screen.

I nodded.

"The device next to it, with the telephone? It's called a modem. It's really quite complicated," the man said, "but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our names.

I gave him a blank look.

"As I said, it's really quite complicated," he said smugly. I could feel the Mole's sneer clear across the room.

"Can you show me?" I asked.

"Very well," he sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his glass with him. The man seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it face down into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard—his password. "Greetings from Santa" came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background.

"Santa is one of us," the man said, by way of explanation.

He typed in "Have you any new presents for us?" The man hit another key and his message disappeared.

In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up. "Seven bags full," said the screen.

"His new boy is seven years old," said the man. "Are you following this?"

"Yes," I told him. Santa Claus.

The man went back to the screen. "This is Tutor. Do you think it's too early in the year to think about exchanging gifts?"

"Not gifts of love," came back the answer.

The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough.

"Later," the man typed into the screen. He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk. "Anything else?" he asked.

"If the boy's picture…the one I want…was taken for sale…not by a pedophile…I couldn't find it?"

"Not in a million years," the man said. "The commercial pictures…they sell them to just
anybody
. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it was in a private collection."

"Say I didn't give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around…see if you could find the picture I'm looking for?"

"No," he said. "I would never betray the trust of my friends." He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away.